


where i've been hiding out

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependency, Gen, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Comfort for the touch-starved, relief for the cold. A trek through the Winchesters' childhood in kisses.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	where i've been hiding out

**Author's Note:**

> I have a real thing for Winchesters-as-asymptotic curve. I have a thing for queerplatonic relationships and the relationships that fit in the sticky in-between places. People keep suggesting that my fics are incorrectly tagged when I write wincest fics where nobody touches. Like Katie Forsythe says, reaching out is good for you, like tennis. I'm not mad.
> 
> ...but in general, I'm going to decline to recategorize my fics. I spend a lot of time thinking about tags, specifically as they relate to stories and as a general concept. Whatever else my tagging practices are, they're certainly not ill-considered. Anyway, in light of people hitting me up about tagging, I got to thinking, "If touch and sex aren't necessary for a romantic relationship (and I believe they aren't), then what does a platonic relationship _with_ touching look like?" So now we're here. Whether I succeeded or not is up to you, but these tags, too, were intentional.

It’s a sunny, still afternoon. It’s hot everywhere. It’s hot outside with the blinding sun beating down, and it’s hot indoors. The air is perfectly still. Not a single breeze stirs, and Sam’s legs stick to the seat of the pleather couch he’s sprawled across. It’s almost too miserable to move.

He’s in the kitchen getting a glass of water when he hears the screen door bang open and shut. Dean’s back from the grocery store, a slightly crumpled paper bag in his hands. He sets it atop the kitchen island and hip-checks Sam on the way past, just to be a pain in the ass. It knocks Sam’s glass into his teeth, its contents down his face and the front of his shirt.

“Hey,” Sam sputters.

“Sorry, short stuff.”

Dean doesn’t sound really sorry, and Sam glares. He sets his glass down on the counter and brushes the water off his clothes as best he can. It’s already seeping in, and whatever relief it might have provided from the heat is short-lived. The water’s very quickly the same temperature as the rest of him. He’s still hot, only now he’s wet too. Sometimes Dean sucks.

“What’d you get?” Sam asks, already peering into the bag.

There’s stuff for dinner—pork chops and cream of mushroom soup, a box of instant rice. There’s cereal for the morning, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter.

“Hair’s getting so goddamn long,” Dean says. “Gonna have to start calling you Samantha if you don’t cut it.”

“I like it,” Sam says, only a little defensive.  _ “You _ like it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dean’s all talk. He says Sam’s hair’s getting too long, but he’s the one who helps Sam work the tangles out of it. He’s the one who ends up with his fingers buried in Sam’s hair when they watch TV on the couch, absently petting through it in a way Sam’s not even sure he’s conscious of.

It hits him all at once, out of nowhere. A sudden rush of overwhelming love for Dean, every bit of him. For the way he teases Sam about his hair, for the way he calls him Samantha, for the way he gets the cereal he knows Sam wants, even when they both know it’s not on sale. For everything—every little thing that makes up Dean. For being the one thing that has always meant comfort and safety and love.

And that’s just it. It’s the only thing.

Sam just leans up and plants one on him. Dean doesn’t kiss him back, but Sam doesn’t need him to. “Kissing back” is barely a concept in his brain at this point. It’s enough that he wanted to press his mouth to Dean’s, to feel Dean’s lips under his own, so he did it. It’s a pop kiss, nothing more. The kind of kiss he’d give his grandma, if he had a grandma. Sam pulls back while Dean’s still standing there, stock-still and stunned.

Dean’s lips move a few times, like he’s trying to sound out what just happened, but no words are coming out. By the time he finally finds his voice, it’s barely more than a squeak, unfamiliar and unsure. “Sammy?”

Sam tilts his head, and his bangs flop into his eyes. Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe they really are getting too long. “Yeah?”

“Why did you— Man, did you just  _ kiss me?” _

He nods.

“Sam, you can’t—” Dean stops. Closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then blows it back out again. Sam has never seen Dean at a loss for words before. It’s like discovering a new breed of bug. It’s like finding life on the surface of the mood. It feels like finally doing something right, like finding the key.

“You can’t do that, okay?”

It feels like everything shattering.

“Why not?”

“Because—because you just can’t.”

“Oh.”

Sam pulls away. He read this wrong, did something wrong. He plans to go—somewhere. He hasn’t figured it all the way out yet, but it doesn’t matter because Dean grabs him round the arm when he tries to flee.

“Lemme go,” Sam mutters, yanking on his arm, but Dean won’t. He tries and tries to catch Sam’s eye, puts himself right in Sam’s way and doesn’t move a muscle, and Sam’s not having it. He studies Dean’s shoes until he can’t any longer, feeling suddenly dark and ashamed, his earlier good mood completely shattered. The tongues of Dean’s Converse are tea-colored, the color of the dregs of coffee left at the bottom of styrofoam cups.

Sam wishes he didn’t know that. He scrubs at his bottom lip with his teeth because he can still feel Dean there, the chapped softness of his lips, and Dean didn’t like it, and that makes this  _ wrong. _

Sam is stubborn, but Dean has more practice, so eventually Sam looks up—not because he wants to leave, although that’s true too. He looks up because he has to see Dean’s face, has to know what he’s thinking. Because the not-knowing is killing him. He looks up, and Dean is watching him, patient and steady. His eyes are serious. They’re so, so green.

“Okay, Sammy?” Dean asks. Sam feels pinned under his gaze.

Sam doesn’t agree. He doesn’t really even get it, what this is all about, but he nods because that’s what Dean wants. He nods, and Dean breathes out a sigh of relief that sounds too loud in the quiet house. He tousles Sam’s hair and slaps him on the back.

“Attaboy, Sammy. Hey, you wanna watch the game with me? Jayhawks versus Bulldogs.”

Dean is trying so hard. He’s trying  _ so _ hard, so aggressively, absolutely normal, like his little brother didn’t just kiss him. Like their dad isn’t off who even knows where, fighting things Sam only wishes he still thought didn’t exist. Sam meanly thinks that he could ask for anything right now, and Dean would probably let him have it if it meant they agreed to forget about what just happened.

Sam doesn’t like basketball.  _ Dean _ doesn’t even really like basketball. He just likes it ‘cause Dad does, but Sam doesn’t say that. Something feels off-kilter, the ground listing beneath his feet in a way he doesn’t like, and he just wants to fix it. He wants normal too, and sitting on the couch watching the game with Dean is normal.

“Okay,” he says.

Dean smiles like he’s just won the jackpot at the arcade. He smiles like the last time Dad stayed home for two weeks straight, and Sam knows he doesn’t deserve that—he agreed to watch a game he doesn’t want to watch, that’s all—but he soaks up Dean’s smiles like he needs them to live all the same.

Dean is happy, which means Sam gets to be happy. Sam messed up, but it’s okay. Dean forgives him. Everything’s going to be okay.

* * *

Sam sleeps in his own bed more often than not. Or it’d be more accurate to say, he sleeps in his own bed when that’s an option. It isn’t always. Some of the places Dad brings them to are tiny studio apartments, barely big enough for one bed, let alone three. He knows Dad’s not made of money, and an extra room would be a luxury they can’t afford, so he’s used to sharing.

He also knows, in the way he now knows that kissing his brother on the mouth is wrong, that he’s supposed to mind it.

He doesn’t, though. Not really. He gets nightmares—always has. They used to be nameless and formless, waking him with a fear-soaked brain and a cry still dying in his mouth. Sometimes with tears still wet on his cheeks. The dreams haven’t changed, or stopped, but lately they’ve taken on color and shape. There are so many things he wishes he didn’t know.

He doesn’t mind sharing a bed with Dean because Dean makes him feel safe. He falls asleep easier when Dean’s beside him, warm and solid and  _ there. _ Dean chases away his nightmares so he can rest.

It never used to be a big deal. Even in the motels with a cot—even in the houses with two beds and an extra couch—he could always go to Dean when the nightmares got really bad. He’d pad down the hallway, careful not to make a sound—not that Dad would’ve woken up anyway—coming to stop at the side of Dean’s bed like a lost thing. Dean would always wake up as if by magic, just knowing Sam was there. He’d throw back the covers with a gruff grunt and let Sam climb in, where it was warm and safe.

The nightmares are bad tonight. They wake Sam up and leave him gasping. Even in the dark, with the familiar ceiling above him, the utterly recognizable stain that runs lengthwise along it, he still can’t sleep. He pinches himself in the leg, hard, to make sure he’s not still dreaming. Everything feels funhouse mirror tonight, and not in a good way.

On any other night, he’d go to Dean and wait to be let into his bed. He wants it so bad he can taste it—wants it so bad he could nearly cry—but he has the same vague, shameful feeling that he’s not supposed to, because what if Dean minds it?

He lies in the dark, breathing fast and hard, not realizing he’s making so much noise until he hears Dean’s voice from somewhere to his right, floating up from the other bed.

“Sammy?”

“Sorry,” Sam chokes out. His voice sounds fragile and thin. He sounds about two seconds from crying.

Apparently he’s not the only one who hears it, because he hears a rustle from the other bed and then a shape rising—Dean sitting up, instantly alert. “Whoa, hey, Sammy, what’s up? You okay?”

Sam nods reluctantly, which is stupid, because Dean can’t even see him. “Nightmares.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and Sam feels so  _ stupid. _ “Do you wanna come over here?”

Sam nods again, flush with relief, and it doesn’t even matter that Dean can’t see him because he’s crossing the short distance between their beds, cheeks burning. It almost doesn’t matter that he feels stupid—that he feels like a  _ baby— _ because this is what he wanted, exactly this. This warmth around him that smells so much like Dean, the feeling of Dean’s body beside him, solid and strong. Dean wraps him in one long arm and snugs him close, and Sam can’t help the happy sigh that escapes.

A second ago, he’d have said that he wasn’t tired—that there was no way in hell he’d ever get back to sleep tonight—but just like magic, sleep’s already beginning to pull him under.

He’s so far gone that Dean’s voice takes him by surprise. It feels like it’s coming from far away, and Sam has to fight his eyes open to focus on the words.

“You know you can always come to me, right?” Dean says. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean, what I said earlier, I didn’t mean— I’m here for you, Sammy. You know that, right?”

Sam nods sleepily. “‘Course.”

And in that moment, on the edge between sleep and waking, he knows it’s absolutely true.

* * *

They don’t bring up the kiss, and Sam doesn’t try to do it again.  _ You just can’t _ sticks in his mind, so that’s that.

Dean doesn’t let him get weird about it, though. He doesn’t pull away from Sam, doesn’t seem to want Sam farther from him when they pile into the car, when they watch TV, when they walk to school in the mornings. If anything, he seems to pull Sam closer. He’s always got a hand on Sam’s back, on his shoulder, in his hair. It’s like he’s trying to make sure Sam knows it’s okay—that they’re okay.

Whatever the reason, Sam doesn’t second-guess it. He drinks in the attention, the touch. He soaks it up and positively beams with it, and he doesn’t know if he can remember ever being this happy.

It’s not a big deal. Sam doesn’t  _ need _ to kiss Dean. It was just an instinct, and he’d ran with it, but not having it isn’t the end of the world.

They’re sitting on the couch, laughing at a cartoon. Sam’s curled up in the crook of Dean’s arm, nestled right into his side. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and it’s cooler in California than it was in Arizona, but not by much. It’s still warm enough that there’s a light sheen of sweat on both of them, in the bend of their elbows and the space behind their knees. Enough that Sam can smell Dean, familiar and human beside him.

He feels content. He’s fixated on the show and wondering if they still have cookies in the cupboard. He isn’t expecting it when Dean slips his hand beneath Sam’s chin, tilts his face up, and plants a sweet kiss on his lips.

Sam’s eyes slide shut of their own accord, and when he opens them, Dean’s already looking at the TV again, his chest rumbling with laughter that bobs Sam up and down.

“I thought you said we couldn’t,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes at Dean.

Dean shrugs. He smooths his hand over Sam’s hair, down the curve of his back. “I changed my mind.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Sam settles back in, and they watch the rest of the show together until Dean has to get up to make them both dinner.

* * *

Sam likes being kissed, and he likes kissing Dean, and it becomes just another thing that they do, like training or riding their bikes up and down the cul-de-sac where they live. Kisses are nice.

Sometimes they fall asleep kissing, and that’s even better, the slow, lazy press of lips against lips as they drift off at night. He likes the feel of Dean’s breath against his lips, hot right up against his mouth. Sam’s shorter than Dean, so he has to scoot all the way up, so they’re pressed face-to-face in the little dip between their pillows.

Most times Sam falls asleep before Dean does, but sometimes it’s the other way around. Sam likes those times. He likes being the last one awake, feeling Dean’s lips go slack and uncoordinated against his. It feels like catching the last mumbled word spoken into the dark. He likes falling asleep like this. It feels special, like a secret. Like something for just the two of them. Something no one else knows or even understands.

Dean’s gone in the morning when he wakes up, but Sam can still feel the warmth left behind by his body. Down the hall, he hears the sound of the shower running. He wriggles into the divot left on the other side of the small bed, snuffles his nose into Dean’s pillow before breathing deep. He doesn’t mean to fall back asleep—doesn’t think he will. They’re supposed to run this morning, and he’s got a math test today, but the comfort all around him drags him down, and by the time he’s woken by a wet towel smacking him on the side of the face, the sun is streaming full in through the window, and he’s going to be late for sure.

* * *

Dad doesn’t like how close they are. He doesn’t have to say it. Sam can read between the lines. It’s there in the way he tenses up sometimes, in the way he’s begun watching the two of them like he doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking at. That look is new, Sam thinks. He doesn’t remember seeing it before, or maybe he just didn’t know how to look before.

Dad is watching them now. They’re sitting across from him in a diner in the Midwest, tucked up in a booth in the back, out of the way of the milling crowds. Dad’s facing the door, glancing toward it every now and then. Sam is wedged into the inside seat, and Dean keeps checking the back door. Their vigilance is making him nervous, and he crowds closer to Dean to slake his discomfort.

Dad’s eyes find a new point of contact then, the space where Sam’s arm is pressed against Dean’s. Dean jostles him a little with every forkful, and Sam doesn’t move an inch, just eats his food and stubbornly avoids looking anywhere but at his plate of hash browns.

“Maybe your brother wants a little space, Sam,” Dad says after the third time he glances at them, mouth pursed in disapproval.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” Dean starts to say. Sam feels certain there was going to be a  _ sir _ on the tail end of that sentence—there always is—but the rest of it dies in the air, trailing off at Dad’s look.

Sam sits there stubbornly, staring their dad down. “Dean says it’s fine.”

“Sam—” Dad starts, and it’s the tone of voice that means business. That means Sam’s going to have serious regrets later if he doesn’t listen, but Sam’s getting to the age where there are things that scare him worse than Dad, so he sets his jaw and braces for a fight.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says, soft and soothing next to him. “Budge over and finish your pancakes. You’re cramping my style anyway.”

And the words might sting, but the tone of voice doesn’t, and Sam can hear what Dean’s really saying. He’s saying it’s okay. He’s saying  _ I’m right here, _ and that? That really does make it okay.

Sam scoots over the tiniest amount humanly possible, putting about an inch between him and Dean. Their dad opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but in the end he closes it again. He shakes his head. He looks toward the door.

Sam can still feel the radiant warmth of Dean’s body soaking into his skin like a phantom touch.

Dean’s a fast eater, and Sam’s no slouch, but their dad finishes before either of them. He’s tossing his napkin onto his clean plate not two minutes later and slurping up the dregs of his coffee. He’s saying, “Hurry it up, boys. We hit the road in five.”

“Yessir,” they chorus in unison.

Dad leaves the booth to use the payphone outside, and Sam scoots right back next to Dean, a magnet drawn to its opposing pole.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, but he doesn’t say no, and he doesn’t tell Sam to move. He drapes his arm over Sam’s shoulder, just for a second. He squeezes him in close and presses a kiss to Sam’s mop of hair.

Then he lets him go and finishes his breakfast and tells Sam to use the bathroom if he’s gotta because you know how Dad is and he’s not gonna stop.

* * *

“It’s cold,” Sam says.

“Of course it’s cold. It’s winter.”

Sam shakes his head because Dean doesn’t  _ understand. _ He stamps his feet to try to bang some life back into them. They feel frozen solid. “It’s  _ cold.” _

Dean laughs at his miserable sniffle, and Sam glares.

They’re staying in a cabin. It belongs to one of Dad’s hunting buddies—hunting buddies or  _ hunting _ buddies, Sam doesn’t know and doesn’t really care to find out. There’s a wood stove that keeps the main room lit up warm, but the rest of the house gets downright frigid, including the room where they sleep. Maybe Sam’s coming down with something because he can’t manage to get warm, even when he’s snugged right up close to the stove. He gets too close by accident, in all his huffing and puffing and stomping, and hisses when he pulls his hand away, burnt.

Dean’s schadenfreude-laden laughter dies on his tongue immediately, and he looks at Sam, hawk-eyed, already trying to see how bad it is. “Stop messing around over there and c’mere.”

Sam drags his feet, feeling snotty and irritable. He was in a bad mood before—he’s having a growth spurt and every bone in his body aches like hell—but now his hand hurts on top of it, and he’s feeling even worse.

“Come on, you big baby.”

Sam sniffs, offended, but he still goes, like they both knew he would. Dean holds out his hand, and Sam puts his burned hand into it. Dean turns it over, inspecting it, seemingly satisfied once he sees that Sam’s not maimed. His run-in with the stove left nothing but a cherry-red mark, one that smarts and stings but won’t scar or blister.

“You should run some water over that,” Dean says, but he tugs Sam down into the couch, careful not to jostle his hurt hand.

Sam hits the cushions with an  _ oof, _ and they spend the next few moments rearranging themselves, trying to get comfortable. Sam’s getting bigger, and every piece of furniture he’s encountered since seems somehow too small.

He still fits like this, though. Still fits tucked under the crook of Dean’s arm, nestled into the juncture at Dean’s thighs, the both of them turned sideways so Sam’s long legs don’t hang over the edge of the couch. Sam squirms to get comfortable, and Dean cusses lightly and shoves at him.

“God, you weigh a fucking ton. What are we feeding you?”

Sam shrugs, too comfortable to bicker.

“Thought I had to go run my hand under some water,” he can’t help get in, and Dean shrugs.

“Thought you said you were cold.”

Sam nods, and Dean pulls the flannel throw blanket off the back of the couch and gets it wrapped around them both with a little more jostling. The blanket is dusty and smells like mothballs, but it’s soft against his skin. Sam settles back against Dean, and after a few minutes, their body heat is enough to make him sigh, finally warm.

His toes prickle and itch as they thaw out. He taps his feet against the arm of the couch a few times and doesn’t say anything about it, but Dean must know somehow. He toes off Sam’s shoes one at a time, each one rolling off the side of the couch and hitting the floor with a heavy thunk, and wraps his feet around Sam’s. The inside of Sam’s socks feels damp and a little gross—wet with some combination of cold, heat, and sweat—and grosser still with Dean’s feet on top of his, but the comfort is too good to bitch about.

“Dad’s home,” Sam says, like it matters. It might. Dean’s touchier about that stuff than he is. Sam stopped caring about his dad’s approval years ago—or he tells himself he did.

But not tonight.

Dean shrugs, and Sam knows not to push it.

This is a good thing. The fire crackling in the woodstove, his brother wrapped around him with salt lines at the door, everything warm and safe from the world around them. This is a good thing. This is  _ the _ good thing.

Sam closes his eyes and listens to Dean’s heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> [I know what to do when the world is on fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoBIR22pLis) | [Find me](https://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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